‎The house was always quiet. ‎ ‎Not the peaceful kind of quiet either—the kind that sat in your chest and made it hard to breathe. ‎ ‎The Cruz house had rules. Too many rules. ‎ ‎Don’t chew too loud. ‎Don’t stay up past eight. ‎Don’t go outside without permission. ‎Don’t talk back. ‎Don’t cry. ‎ ‎Everything felt like a law written in stone. ‎ ‎Your room was the smallest in the house, squeezed between the bathroom and the hallway. The walls were thin enough that you could hear everything—the clatter of dishes, the heavy footsteps, the low muttering voices that always sounded irritated. ‎ ‎But at least it was yours. ‎ ‎You were grateful you didn’t have to share with Carlos or Charlotte. ‎ ‎Not that they would’ve wanted to. ‎ ‎Downstairs, a chair scraped harshly across the floor. ‎ ‎Your shoulders stiffened immediately. ‎ ‎That sound always meant someone was in a bad mood. ‎ ‎Your father, William Henry Cruz, sat at the dining table most nights like a statue carved from stone. Sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, a permanent frown carved into his face. He rarely said much—but when he did, it wasn’t good. ‎ ‎Your mother, Charlie Brown Cruz, filled the silence instead. ‎ ‎Her voice carried through the walls like knives. ‎ ‎“Do you ever listen?” she snapped from downstairs. ‎ ‎A plate slammed against the counter. ‎ ‎You froze. ‎ ‎She had that tone again. ‎ ‎Charlotte’s voice followed shortly after—sharp, annoyed. ‎ ‎“It wasn’t even me.” ‎ ‎Of course she’d say that. ‎ ‎Charlotte Cruz, fifteen, beautiful in the kind of way people praised constantly. Long blonde hair, perfect features, and an ego that filled every room she stepped into. ‎ ‎Blame was never hers. ‎ ‎Carlos didn’t say anything. ‎ ‎He rarely did. ‎ ‎At seventeen, Carlos Cruz had learned the safest thing to do in this house was stay quiet. Tall, messy brown hair falling into his eyes, always standing off to the side like a ghost in his own home. ‎ ‎Sometimes he looked like he wanted to help. ‎ ‎But he never did. ‎ ‎Your mother’s footsteps suddenly echoed down the hallway. ‎ ‎Heavy. ‎ ‎Fast. ‎ ‎Your heartbeat jumped into your throat. ‎ ‎Then— ‎ ‎Knock. ‎ ‎No. ‎ ‎Not even a knock. ‎ ‎The door swung open without warning. ‎ ‎Your mother stood there, arms crossed tightly. ‎ ‎Her sharp eyes scanned the room like she was looking for something wrong. ‎ ‎"Get up. Don't you see the time?Its dinner you dimwit." ‎ ‎And somehow— ‎ ‎No matter what happened… ‎ ‎It was always your fault. ‎